


the dust of grief and sorrow

by annabeth_writes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x06 rewrite, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confrontations, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-13 08:16:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: Sansa arrives in King’s Landing, intending to do whatever it takes to save Jon. Yet before anything else, she must speak to him. There is far too much that they need to say.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soapieturner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapieturner/gifts).



> This is a fix-it fic. The confrontation between Jon and Dany went down differently but that will be explored later on. This chapter purely focuses on Jon and Sansa.

"After it settles,  
the dust of grief and sorrow,  
I will still hold you."

                          - tylerknott

It was not the crumbled castle that bothered her, nor the watchful gazes of the Unsullied at every turn, but rather the familiar feeling that stirred in her gut. The helplessness that she hoped never to experience again. There was no cruel king upon a throne to beg. No one to watch as she fell to her knees and pleaded mercy for someone she loved. Tyrion was as much a prisoner as Jon and Daenerys’ army wouldn’t be swayed by her sentiment. Try as she might, Arya couldn’t take on hundreds of soldiers and Bran, for all his wisdom, had very little to offer.

Sansa was on her own.

But the last thing she intended to do was give up.

Her feet carried her through the ruins of the Red Keep, up stairs and through corridors until she found herself standing before a door. It wasn’t the black cells, where her father had languished for weeks before his execution, but it was a prison all the same. Sansa silently dared the Unsullied on either side of it to stop her as she pushed the door open, stepping into the shadowed room. A singular window offered the barest of light yet it was enough to see the huddled form leaning against the wall.

Sansa closed the door behind her, flinching at the sound of it that seemed to echo through the near empty room. Jon didn’t so much as blink, his chin tilted down towards his chest. For a moment, Sansa wondered if he slept. Then she saw the twitch of his fingers and knew he wasn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to move. Her feet were rooted to the floor and her hands clenched tight in her skirts. Breathing in deeply and wetting her lips, Sansa prepared herself for the worst as she forced herself to take one step, then another before speaking with a tremble in his voice.

“Jon?”

As if he was stirred from a trance by the sound of her voice, he jerked in place as his fingers curled into fists. His head did not lift, but she listened as he exhaled slowly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice rough with disuse.

Sansa swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly feeling very dry as she felt her heart constrict.

“Neither should you,” she said, moving forward.

Jon finally looked up, his dark, haunted eyes meeting hers. The sight of him nearly pulled her up short, his hair hanging dirty and unkempt about his face and his beard grown out into a scraggly mess. His skin was pale and drawn yet there was no other sign of mistreatment. The tunic he wore hung loosely from his frame and his hands were streaked with dirt. Sansa slowly sank to her knees in front of him, unbothered by his unwashed state as she folded her hands in her lap.

“Tell me what happened,” she said quietly, a beseeching look in her eyes.

Jon turned his head, a scoffing noise rising in his throat as he blinked slowly in the direction of the window.

“You know,” he said, his voice growing harder.

“Not everything.”

Jon’s eyes flitted back to her, something dark and wild suddenly rising their depths.

“What did you think was going to happen?”

Sansa nearly recoiled at the harshness of his words, her breath catching in her throat.

“I asked you not to say anything,” he said, his voice raw and broken. “You _vowed_ to me-”

“ _You_ shouldn’t have asked it of me,” Sansa snapped in return, surprised at the vehemence of her own words.

Jon’s eyes grew wide at her words and though she wished that she could call them back, a part of her felt relieved to have it out in the open.

“You’re right,” he said, jerking his head in a single nod. “Perhaps I should never have told you.”

Sansa’s lips parted in shock at his words, the color draining from her face as a chill curled down her spine. Looking away from him, she blinked away the tears that stung at her eyes.

“You blame me,” she breathed out, willing her voice to remain steady.

Jon didn’t say anything, yet the silence only convinced her that it may be true.

“I had little choice.”

“You had every choice,” Jon countered.

“Look where we are,” Sansa cried, flinging her hand towards the window as she looked at him once more. “Look what has happened here!”

Jon clenched his teeth, the muscles working in his jaw as he glowered at her.

“You told me that she would be a good queen for us all and yet here we stand in the ashes of her deeds. Though you may hate me for working against her, it seems that I was right.”

“Yes,” Jon said, his voice hard as he leaned forward just slightly. “You were right.”

Sansa stared at him with round eyes.

“I did what I thought was right,” she said, leaning away from him. “This secret put you in danger. Others had to know or she would use it against you. I did what I thought I had to do to protect you.”

“And everything that I did was to protect you!”

She flinched away at his hoarse shout, staring at him with shock. Jon looked stunned at his own words, as if he didn’t quite plan to say them.

“To protect the North,” he amended.

Sansa lurched to her feet, nearly stumbling over the hem of her gown as she put a much-needed distance between the two of them.

“Something I might have known if you hadn’t shut me out,” she accused, pacing away from him.

Sansa wrung her hands together as tears slipped down her cheeks.

“You wanted my trust and you gave nothing in return,” she said, anger and sorrow clawing at her chest.

She heard the rustle of movement behind her yet did not turn to face him.

“I gave you an army.”

Sansa whirled about at his words, seeing that he was standing with a hand braced against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

“At what cost?” she demanded of him. “Look at what she made you a part of, Jon.”

“I made my choices,” he said, though she could hear a heavy weight to his voice.

Sansa scoffed, looking away from him as she used the sleeve of her dress to dry her cheeks.

“You never would have chosen this,” she said with a shake of her head.

A beat of silence passed between them as her words hung in the air.

“Perhaps you misjudged me,” Jon said wearily.

Sansa pressed her lips together as she turned away from him, shaking her head with her hand to her forehead. She had more faith in him than that, even if he did not believe her. Because there was one thing that did not fit. One detail that needed explanation.

“Why kill her?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

No answer came, even as she shifted around to look at him. His eyes were fixed firmly upon the floor, his lips parted just slightly as his chest rose and fell at a rapid pace.

“Jon…”

“I told you,” he sighed, his legs giving way as he slid down to the floor once more.

Realization struck her like a punch to the chest, her breath rushing out of her all at once. _I’ll protect you, I promise_. A vow made long ago. A promise she refused to believe in yet one that Jon never forgot. She knew that Varys had been executed by Daenerys for betraying her, for acting on the truth he learned from Tyrion. A truth that Tyrion learned from her. It wasn’t a far leap to assume that Daenerys might want her punished as well. Sansa inhaled shakily, trying not to let the tears overwhelm her once more as she tilted her head back towards the cracked ceiling.

“I never wanted this,” she said, her voice breaking as she shook her head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Jon let out a slow, labored breath before speaking again.

“I don’t blame you,” he finally said, denying her earlier words.

Sansa’s head lowered, her eyes falling upon him once more. He stared back at her, emotions swimming in his gaze as he shook his head.

“I knew what she was,” Jon said miserably. “And when she threatened you…”

Her mind cleared without warning, a fog disappearing that she hadn’t even known was there. That’s what it all came down to. _You._

_You shouldn’t be here._

_You were right._

_And everything I did was to protect you!_

_I gave you an army._

_And when she threatened you…_

Sansa’s own legs grew weak, a strangled sob falling from her lips as she dropped to her knees before him once more. Reaching out hesitantly, afraid that he might pull away, she cupped his face in her hands when he showed no sign of stopping her. His beard scratched at her palms yet she paid it no mind. Leaning forward, she laid a gentle, lingering kiss upon his forehead.

“Let me do it now,” Sansa whispered after a long moment, pulling away staring deep into his eyes. “Let me protect you.”

Jon stared at her, indecision in his eyes.

“Go home, Sansa,” he said, a wretched sound to his voice. “Please.”

She shook her head, refusing to hear it.

“Not without you.”

Sansa held his gaze unflinchingly, refusing to give up on him. Not when she came all this way _for_ him. Not even if he yelled and raged and demanded that she go. He could hate her for it, but she wouldn’t leave him in King’s Landing. Not when she herself had been trapped here. Not when he could die.

“I won’t give up on you,” Sansa said, brushing her thumb over his cheek as a single tear slid down her own. “Don’t ask me to.”

Jon’s eyes closed as he exhaled slowly, the fight draining from him as he nodded slowly. Sansa pressed her lips together to muffle a relieved sob, pitching herself into his arms. He caught her as she clutched at him, his arms wrapping around her with equal desperation. As she held him close to her, her tears staining his tunic, Sansa vowed that he would not be lost to her, for losing him would be to lose her own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you like it! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> to request a fic, go to @snowsinthenorth on tumblr


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the brilliant response to this fic! I'm so glad that you all like it so far! I hope that you like this chapter as much. I've changed the chapter count from 3 to 5.
> 
> Some of this dialogue is taken from 8x06 and does not belong to me.

In all her time in King’s Landing, Sansa never had a reason to visit the Dragonpit. As far as she could tell, no one cared much for the remnants of the Targaryen rule. Joffrey had little use for a ruin. Yet now everything was in ruin and the pit was the only thing that hadn’t been touched by Drogon’s fire. So she marched directly to the iron gates, twenty Northmen surrounding her as a reminder to all that she had not come alone. Arya and Bran were already seated beneath the coverings, their faces equally stone-like. Sansa forced hers to become the same, winding her fingers into her woolen skirts and ascending the steps.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lord Royce sat with her cousin, who had come into his own as Lord of the Eyrie, Anya Waynwood, and his own cousin, Lord Nestor Royce. Lord Royce offered her a nod as he glanced her way and she gave him one in return, an odd familial affection rising in her at the sight of this man who had offered so much to her in his steadfast loyalty and wise counsel. Sansa only hoped that she could count on him now, when she needed allies more than ever. Before she could make her way to her seat, another attendee rose from their chair and drew her up short, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Yara Greyjoy there.

Though Sansa had never met the woman before, it was easy enough to identify her by the kraken emblazoned on her chest as well as the familiarity she could see in her face. They regarded one another silently, one single thread binding them together. An unspoken name yet one that meant everything to each of them all the same. When Yara took a step forward, Sansa heard the Northmen at her back shift as one and even saw Arya’s hand twitch towards the sword on her belt from the corner of her eye. She lifted her hand, stilling them all before matching Yara’s step with one of her own.

“He died well?” Yara finally said, her voice low and raspy.

Sansa nodded, feeling Bran’s eyes upon her. He would have more to say of it, yet it was she that Yara looked to.

“We had to burn him,” she said regretfully, remembering how vehemently she’d tried to convince the others that he should be buried at sea.

No one else was willing to take the chance, even with the Night King dead. Yet she did not let that be the end of it, gathering what she could of his remains after the fires burned out. White Harbor was well out of their way as they marched south but Sansa was determined to see it through.

“I spread his ashes over the sea myself,” Sansa told her, hoping that it would be enough.

A look of despair passed over Yara’s face only to disappear as quickly as it came. Sansa knew that she was a woman that showed little weakness, even in the wake of her brother’s death, and understood why she’d feel the need to cover her emotions. Theirs were hard lands and hard people. They had to learn to be hard as well. Giving her a brief nod, Yara took yet another step to close the distance between them, reaching her arm out towards Sansa. All eyes were upon them, two women who had lost so much and remained standing, trying to uphold what was left of their houses. Reaching out, she clasped her hand over Yara’s forearm and felt the other woman do the same.

“What is dead may never die,” Yara said, her voice thick with emotion. “But rises again, harder and stronger.”

They stood like that for another long moment before Yara released her arm and Sansa did the same. As the Ironborn woman turned back to her chair, Sansa’s eyes caught on a bright spot of color and she glanced towards the prince of Dorne that sat next to her. He looked quite unlike the only other prince she’d ever seen, for Oberyn Martell was a man all his own, yet she could see a similar hunger in his dark eyes as he stared back at her.

“My lady,” he said, bowing his head without standing.

Sansa dipped into a shallow curtsy without taking her eyes from his, inwardly wondering where his allegiances stood.

“My prince,” she said quietly, straightening once more.

As she turned away, Sansa caught Arya eyeing the most uncomfortable looking member of the gathering council. The newly made Lord of Storm’s End looked downright miserable in the finery that he wore, as if he wished nothing more than to be back in a forge with a hammer in his hand and no other cares upon his shoulders. Sansa silently commiserated with him as she made her way to the seat set aside for her, arranging her skirts as she sat. Deep within her mind, though she would not admit it aloud, she wished that she could turn back the wheel of time to before they ever took Winterfell. To those long days on the road, traveling through the North with little to their name.

Sansa remembered the nights the most, some spent in Jon’s tent with a bowl of stew in her hands. Sometimes those hours passed in companionable silence, neither finding the urge to speak yet comfortable with it all the same. Yet other times, they filled the air with stories. Some of Winterfell that both remembered and some from their times away from one another, Jon north of the Wall and Sansa in the south. If she closed her eyes, she might recall the low timbre of his voice as he described everything of the true north, as best he could remember. Other nights were spent with Free Folk and northerners alike, with ale and wine passed about freely.

Jon laughed on those nights, as Tormund spun Sansa about the fire in a reel-like dance even with no music to guide their steps. There was little to worry about on those nights, even as they marched ever closer to Winterfell. Sansa wished she could live in that time again, with Jon at her side. Yet she could not let herself live there, in her memories. There was too much to be done now. Far too much importance on the outcome of this gathering. As they heard the march of approaching soldiers, Sansa nodded at the northern soldiers that accompanied her to take up post around the Dragonpit.

“Forgive me, my lady, but is that wise?” Davos asked from where he sat next to Brienne.

Sansa didn’t tear her eyes away from the gates, watching as they marched through with a chained Tyrion alone. Anger spiked through her as she realized that they left Jon, likely wanting to keep him far from those who would see him freed. Arya’s intake of breath told her that her sister realized the same. Their eyes met for a brief moment before darting away, watching as the Unsullied spread out to post along the walls as well, a clear indication of their own strength. The Dothraki had long since gone, much to her relief. They had little to do with Westeros now that Daenerys was dead, and the Dothraki Sea appealed to them far more than a nearly frozen land.

“Quite wise, Ser Davos,” Sansa said quietly, her eyes fixed upon the commander of the Unsullied. “We will not be cowed.”

Tyrion looked much like Jon had, with dirt-streaked upon his skin and his clothes hanging loose from his form. Yet she could not bring herself to feel sympathy for him. Not when he brought the Dragon Queen to their doorstep. Not when the destruction of King’s Landing and their current situation could be laid at his feet.

“Where’s Jon?” she demanded, fixing her eyes upon Grey Worm.

“He is our prisoner.”

“So is Lord Tyrion. They were both to be brought to this gathering.”

The warrior’s eyes narrowed to slits, his hands clasping behind him.

“We will decide what to do with our prisoners. This is our city now.”

Sansa pressed her lips together to keep from sneering at his words. As fury unfurled within her, she wanted to scream it out until it echoed through the city of ashes that this man claimed as his own.

“This is no city,” she said, shaking her head minutely. “Your queen saw to that.”

“My queen liberated the people of this city.”

Her lips parted in shock at his words, the color draining from her face. Sansa did not have to be within the walls as the city burned to imagine the screams of the dying. The gall to dismiss a massacre as liberation was near unbelievable.

“If you look outside what remains of this city’s walls, you will find thousands of Northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your interest.”

“And you will find thousands of Unsullied who believe that it is.”

“Friends, please,” Davos said, rising to his feet. “There has been enough fighting.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair, refusing to break her gaze away from the Unsullied commander. He would not see her break. Not for a single moment.

“If it weren’t for you and your men, we would have lost the war with the dead,” Davos said, his attention on Grey Worm as well. “This realm owes you a debt it can never repay, but let us try.”

His head turned, his eyes falling upon Sansa beseechingly. She tilted her head towards him, nodding her head slowly. If he could find a peaceful resolution, she would be all too willing to follow it. Sansa did not want to see more blood spilled. Far too many had died already.

“There is land in the Reach. Good land. The people that used to live there are gone,” Davos offered, his eyes moving to Grey Worm again. “Make it your own. Start your own house with the Unsullied as your bannermen.”

He paused and all eyes fell upon the Unsullied commander, waiting to hear if he would speak. He did not.

“We’ve had enough war,” the onion knight continued, his voice nearly desperate. “Thousands of you, thousands of them. You know how it ends. We need to find a better way.”

“We do not need payment. We need justice.”

Sansa’s jaw tightened as she rose to her feet. All around the pit, she heard the Northmen shift forward and the Unsullied stamp their spears in response.

“Justice for one life?” she said, lifting her chin. “And what of the people of King’s Landing? The women and children that burned? Where is their justice?”

She turned her head, looking to the Dornish prince once more.

“Where is the justice for Ellaria Sand and her daughters? Who allied with your queen and received no help when they were captured?”

The prince straightened from his lazy sprawl, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked from her to Grey Worm and back.

“Where is the justice for Yara Greyjoy? Who had to be rescued by her brother after your queen refused to lift a finger to ensure her return?”

Yara didn’t look her way, yet there was a flicker of doubt through her eyes. Sansa looked around at the gathered lords and ladies. She stared into their eyes, making sure that they saw hers in return.

“Daenerys Targaryen invaded these lands,” she said, moving forward. “She committed crimes against the people of Westeros.”

“Perhaps she should have been given a trial.”

Sansa looked to Lady Waynwood, remembering how she’d embraced her comfortingly as she shed tears in defense of a man who deserved little of them. The Eyrie felt so far away now, in distance and in time. Yet she knew she could rely on the lady’s sense.

“With a dragon at her back? Do you truly think she would have allowed such a thing?” she asked.

No one answered. They all knew. Sansa steeled herself, looking to Arya who gave her no indication of her thoughts apart from a slow nod. Then to Bran, who stared at her with such distance in his eyes. Yet there was something there that encouraged her to speak. To reveal to all the truth that was her only true weapon. The only way that she could save Jon, apart from another war.

“In truth, the throne was not Daenerys Targaryen’s to claim,” she said, fixing her eyes upon Tyrion as he did his best to avoid meeting her gaze. “She usurped the position of her own trueborn nephew, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The same man  _ you  _ have imprisoned.”

Mutters broke out around her yet it was one voice that rose above the others as Grey Worm glared her way.

“So it’s true, then?” the Prince of Dorne asked, leaning forward with one elbow braced on his knee. “The letters that Lord Varys sent?”

Sansa blinked in surprise, unaware of such letters. She looked to Ser Davos, who shook his head in confusion.

“It’s true,” Samwell Tarly spoke up for the first time, rising from his own seat. “I saw it written in the records at the Citadel. Rhaegar Targaryen wed Lyanna Stark.”

“He rode a dragon,” Lord Royce said, nodding his head. “That is proof enough for me.”

“So you claim that he won the throne by right of conquest?” her own Uncle Edmure questioned.

Sansa did not look his way, but rather stared at Grey Worm unflinchingly, setting her shoulders in defiance.

“He is your true king,” she said, speaking to the others. “Will you not fight for him?”

A stillness settled over the gathering, the tense silence nearly making her shiver. Clasping her hands before her, Sansa sank into her seat and awaited their judgment, knowing that she had no other weapons at her disposal.  _ Please, _ she whispered silently, letting her eyes fall closed for the briefest moment.  _ Let it be peace. Let me save him. _ As she opened her eyes again, she saw Tyrion staring directly back at her for the first time. They took the measure of one another for several long moments. As he finally opened his mouth to speak, she could only hope that he’d regain his clever words to settle it once and for all.

For she did not know what else she could do if this didn’t work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> To all those who may be concerned, Sansa has more up her sleeve than she's willing to admit in front of Grey Worm. Everything is not as it seems.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful response! All of your comments have made me so happy!
> 
> I hope that you are all ready for some good Jonsa angst here in this chapter. You may want to note the new tag I added, so that you don't completely give up on me. I'm well aware of the pain I'm about to cause.

_ Someday, your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side. _

Sansa stepped around rubble and cracks in the floor as she made her way across the ruined Great Hall, Septa Mordane’s words haunting her thoughts. Her eyes were fixed upon the raised spot at the opposite end, covered in the melted remains of the Iron Throne. If she closed her eyes, she might see Joffrey sitting there, picking at the swords with a callous look upon his face. It almost seemed poetic, that the throne wouldn’t last the final war. Her heart seized in her chest as she stopped a fair distance from the ravaged steps, her breath catching in her throat.

Her eyes dropped to the floor and she slowly crouched down, her skirts billowing out around her as she brushed her fingers over the once beautiful floor. A place where she spent all too much time, kneeling in supplication with tears upon her cheeks and pleas on the tip of her tongue. Her back throbbed with a phantom pain at the memory of unforgiving swords and mailed fists leaving marks upon her skin. Footsteps reached her ears yet she remained hunched upon the floor.

“I knelt just here,” she quietly without lifting her eyes. “I begged for Father’s life and Joffrey promised he would show mercy.”

Her eyes slipped closed yet a tear managed to slip out nonetheless, carving a path down her cheek just before she reached up to swipe it away, refusing to let it join the others she shed upon the floor.

“This realm could not have endured another tyrant,” Sansa whispered, though she knew her voice carried well enough.

She straightened when no words rose up in response, anxiously smoothing out her skirts before turning to face the other occupant of the room. Jon stood not ten paces away, looking altogether different from how he had when he was imprisoned. His beard was cut close to his jaw once again and his hair was washed clean of dirt and filth, yet loose about his face rather than tied back as she’d grown used to. His skin had been scrubbed as well and he wore clean leathers along with Longclaw at his belt once more. Sansa inhaled deeply, pride rising in her chest at the sight of him.

She did it.

He was free.

Yet there was still a haunted look in the depths of his eyes and traces of anger in the way his lips turned down and his eyes tightened at the corners. Sansa knew that he did not want to be there, in the hall where they stood or in the city that surrounded them. He had yet to be assured of her intentions so she would bear his resentment until he could hear the truth of it. It was dangerous, the knowledge that stirred within her as she looked him over from head to toe. That there was little she would not do for Jon Snow. Even starting a war, if necessary. Thankfully, they’d managed to avoid more fighting.

“Jon,” she said quietly, taking a step towards him.

He flinched almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to still her in place. Sansa’s hands rose instinctively, clasping before her as she braced herself for whatever he might say.

“This isn’t what I wanted.”

Sansa breathed in and out slowly, her heart sinking in her chest. Someone else told him first. Perhaps Ser Davos, who may well have attended him when he was released from the clutches of the Unsullied. Or Tyrion, wherever he wandered about. They were the only two who did not know the truth of the matter. The only two she could not reach with her messages.

“I know,” Sansa said, nodding her head.

Jon lurched forward, his eyes suddenly blazing in a way that was almost frightening. Sansa held her ground, refusing to be cowed even by this man that she loved, perhaps more deeply than any other. Yet her hands tightened around the other and she pressed her lips together, a steely determination rising within her even before he spoke.

“This is no game, Sansa,” he hissed out, his words meant to be harsh. “You cannot move people around as if they are pawns upon a board. You have  _ no _ right.”

Sansa blinked quickly, hoping that the hurt that struck at her heart did not reach her eyes. Judging by the regret she saw flit across his face, her hopes were in vain.

“I know,” she said again, taking a measured step back as the doors to the Great Hall creaked open. “I do listen, Jon. And I learn.”

Before he could react to her words, she turned away from him to compose herself as others slowly filtered in, one after the other. Yara Greyjoy. Lord Royce. Her cousin Robert and Uncle Edmure. Prince Ryon Martell. Ironborn, Valemen, Riverlanders, and Northmen. Lords and ladies from all over Westeros, what remained of the highest houses and advisors along with them. Arya wheeled Bran into the room, Gendry close behind her and Davos near to them as well. 

Tyrion accompanied them, yet stood quite separate from the gathering. He knew that it was by her mercy that he no longer wore shackles about his wrists yet also knew that there was a limit to anyone’s benevolence. Sansa turned around as they all approached, a carefully guarded look upon her face as she watched Jon’s eyes dart from face to face, clearly finding comfort in some and discomfort in others.

Arya gave him a wan smile, looking as relieved as Sansa felt that he was free now. Bran had little reaction, though his eyes flitted over Jon’s shoulders to set upon her as if he could see through her mask quite easily. Sansa avoided his gaze, watching as Ser Davos moved to Jon’s side and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Then the Prince of Dorne lowered himself into a dramatic bow that was reminiscent of Oberyn Martell and Jon’s eyes narrowed as his lips thinned out.

“Your Grace,” Prince Ryon said, mirth shining in his eyes in spite of where they stood.

Sansa pursed her lips, wondering if the man purposefully sought to make this all more difficult for her.

“What of Grey Worm and his forces, Ser Davos?” she asked, saving Jon from speaking a word in response.

“They’ve set sail from the bay, my lady.”

Sansa’s eyes flitted to Bran, who nodded his head slowly before tilting it back. Several gasps and shocked mutters filled the room as his eyes went white but Sansa could only find comfort in the sight of it. He would ensure that they were safe, flying his ravens out over the ships to ensure that the Unsullied had no intention of returning. The rest was in her hands.

“They’re gone?” Jon questioned, surprise clear in his voice.

“They chose life,” Arya said, her eyes meeting Sansa’s. “Not that they were  _ given  _ much of a choice.”

Though she felt Jon’s eyes flit to her as well, she kept her own gaze forward. He would know the truth of it all soon enough. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to explain it to him directly. Not with his words still lingering in her mind, leaving her wondering if he truly thought so little of her.

“It was a show of strength,” Sam said, moving closer to Jon with a look of relief upon his face. “Separated, our armies couldn’t stand against the Unsullied. United, we made it quite clear that they would not survive a war against us.”

“We all had our parts to play,” Sansa said, fighting the anxious urge to wring her hands together.

“Including you,” Arya added, looking to Jon.

He must have shown his confusion and Sam answered it all too willingly.

“They needed a reason not to harm you. What better way than proclaiming you as king?”

Sansa turned away before she could see the realization dawn upon his face. She never did get to see the remorse in his eyes as she cast her own gaze upon the melted throne once more.

“I don’t want it,” Jon said.

“You won’t have it.”

It was Bran’s words that cut through the air, casting a blanket of silence over the hall. Some of them knew her plan, others had no inkling of it. Bran knew the most, for he told her the best way to go about it. Several sets of eyes fell upon her yet she did not turn.

“I thought we were in agreement,” Lady Waynwood said, suspicion in her voice.

“It shouldn’t belong to any one person,” Sansa said, keeping her back turned to them. “Peace cannot last under such conditions, in any capacity. The power will always corrupt, turning family against family and ruler against subject. We’ve seen it time and time again. It must end.”

“You’re speaking of breaking the kingdoms apart,” Tyrion finally spoke, his feet carrying him forward.

Sansa tilted her head towards him, knowing that he must see sense in the idea of it.

“There must be peace.”

“Too many great houses have died out,” he said, a wary sound to his voice. “It cannot be seven.”

She turned back to face the others, nodding her head.

“The maps will have to be redrawn,” Sansa said, looking around at them all.

“All must consent,” Bran said, though there was a look in his eyes that suggested he knew the outcome of such a vote.

One by one, every single voice rose up in agreement. Sansa wished that it could lift the burden from her shoulders, but the weight of it only grew heavier. In the end, there was one who had yet to speak. The one voice that was most important to her. Finally she lifted her eyes, meeting his dark, indecipherable gaze.

“And you?” Sansa asked, her voice soft and questioning.

Jon swallowed hard before nodding his head slowly.

“There must be peace,” he said, repeating her own words.

A slow exhale passed through her lips as she wound her fingers in her skirts. Though it may work, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there would be very little happiness in the days to come.

*****

The terrace was familiar to her. A place of escape, where she could almost hear the ghost of Margaery’s laugh in the seabreeze. The distant cawing of seagulls and rush of waves filled the air as she tilted her head back towards the sun above. It was solitude that she sought, yet it was not meant to be. She looked around from where she sat on a low wall, meeting Jon’s gaze as he grew closer to her, yet kept a distance as he stopped to peer over her shoulder at the glittering water beyond.

It was odd, seeing him in this place that featured so heavily in her memories. He didn’t belong there. Not where she sat crying with Margaery as she came to terms with her wedding to Tyrion. Not with the Red Keep, damaged though it was, visible over his shoulder. Not when too many Stark men died in this city. Yet in spite of his earlier words, near vicious though they were, Sansa found herself thankful for his presence. It wouldn’t be easy, splitting the kingdoms between what great houses remained. No matter what he thought of her, it’d be a relief to have him at her side.

“I shouldn’t have presumed to know your purpose,” he finally said, his voice laden with regretfulness. “I should have asked.”

“You can’t be blamed. It wouldn’t be the first time I tried to thrust a title upon you that you did not want,” Sansa said, remembering that very first night when she all but demanded that he help her take back Winterfell and how loath he was to agree.

She wondered what might have happened if she let him go his own way. If he was allowed to rest his sword and quit fighting. Would they end up here anyhow? Is this always what the gods had in mind for them?

“I would be dead if it weren’t for you, several times over. I owe you more than suspicion and outrage.”

Turning her head, she closed her eyes as she tried not to hear the self-condemnation in his words. It couldn’t lead to any good outcome. Sansa wished that he would quiet himself before irreversible words were spoken.

“Those that survived the sack will seek refuge,” she said, her thoughts turning quickly. “We will need to settle them elsewhere. You did something similar with the wildlings when you granted them the Gift. Your counsel will be invaluable.”

Jon let out a heavy sigh and she could see him shake his head out of the corner of her eye.

“How did you know that I mean to leave?”

Sansa pressed her lips in a tight line, hating that he had to speak it into being. That he could not go on pretending like his first instinct was to strike out on his own.

“I know you,” she whispered, almost hoping that her words would be lost on the wind.

He didn’t say a word, leaving the silence stretching on between them until she couldn’t handle it for a moment longer.

“Where will you go?”

Sansa prayed that he would hear the despair in her voice. That he would answer her much like he had the last time she asked this question. Ages ago, when so little stood between them. When warmth surrounded them that had nothing to do with firelight or thick cloaks.

_ Where will we go? _

“The Wall,” Jon said, sounding almost reluctant to tell her. “Tormund’s taken what’s left of the Free Folk there. They plan to settle north of it again.”

Sansa opened her eyes, her hands curling into fists upon her lap at his words.

“And what of your people?  _ Our _ people?”

“They deserve far better than me.”

She rose to her feet without a second thought, turning away from him in a whirl of skirt and hair. It felt rather unbearable, the thought of sitting in his presence knowing that he meant to leave them. To leave  _ her _ . Yet she barely made it three steps before his hand clasped about his arm as he spoke her name with distress in his voice.

“Do not,” she hissed, wrenching her arm from his grip and stumbling away with the force of it.

A fierceness sparked in Jon’s eyes as he seized her shoulders in a grip that wasn’t entirely ungentle. Yet he drew her close, closer than she should have been.

“Do not  _ what _ ?” he demanded in return.

Sansa’s hands rose to his chest yet she did not push him away nor did she struggle in his hold, though she knew he’d let her go if she wished it.

“Leave if you must,” Sansa said, her ire burning hot in her chest. “But do not think for a moment that I will bless your departure, nor will I watch you go. Not when you are needed.”

“Don’t you see it? This anger that I feel? That I cannot escape?” Jon said, his gaze near scorching as he held her stare. “Look what has been done here. What I let happen. I’m not the man that you think me to be, Sansa.”

“I don’t care,” she said, bitter tears stinging at her eyes. “I don’t care, Jon.”

Her voice broke as she spoke his name, her heart throbbing painfully in her chest as she felt all the worse for his proximity.

“You should,” Jon said, looking near to shaking her. “ _ You _ deserve far better than me.”

Sansa shook her head, fisting her hands into his cloak as she felt her legs grow weak.

“I don’t care.”

Jon’s eyes flitted about her face, reaching up with a shaking hand to cup the back of her head. For just a moment, a single impossible moment, Sansa wondered if she may feel the touch of his lips upon her own. Then he drew her into him, his arms enfolding her into a tight embrace. Sansa leaned heavily into his arms, her face burying in the fur of his cloak. She let her tears fall there, hidden away from the world yet not from him, who knew every one that fell as if they came from his own eyes.

“They will have you,” he whispered into her ear, his hand firm and warm against her back. “Far more worthy than I to carry on your father’s name. To fulfill Robb’s legacy.”

Sansa wanted to shout her dissent. To scream herself hoarse so that he might hear and believe her. But she knew that there was no use for her voice now. Her words would not change his mind. He pulled away, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Goodbye,” he whispered against her skin.

She wanted to hold him close to her and refuse to allow him to take a single step. Yet Sansa’s grip was too weak to keep him in her arms, broken all too easily as he stepped away without another word. His fading footsteps barely reached her ears as she braced herself upon a pillar, gasping for air beyond the agonizing pain that struck her heart. Then she felt the hollowness, dark and unrelenting.

Reaching up with a shaking hand, she wiped away her tears and breathed in as deeply as she could, knowing that her tears would not help her now.  She must be strong, like her father, her sister, her brothers, her mother. A wolf of the North. A Stark of Winterfell. Yes, she could withstand even this. Her duty demanded it of her, no matter how horrible the price. She would not be caged by her own broken heart. Not when there was far too much to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, please let me know what you think!


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